Miasmic Green Mushroom Circle (Enter At Your Own Risk)

[Hannelorian]

Part I: Madame H Sets a Task

The foul scent of the mushrooms must have drawn you in. Or perhaps you were mesmerized, unable to turn away, your feet compelled to move even if your mind begged for them to stop. Now it is too late and there is no going back. In the blink of an eye you have been transported.

The sensation of falling captures you, you notice your hair catching along the cool air that whips past, perhaps a little too cold. The next thing you feel is your body connecting with a worn wooden floor, a distinct thud as your momentum is suddenly arrested. You have arrived at your destination.

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Standing up, you take a moment to catch your breath. Thankfully you appear not to be seriously injured. But that just leaves one question. Where are you? Looking around there isn’t much light, only the illumination from the moon pouring in through the large glass dome that acts as a ceiling.

There are shelves all along the walls with endless books all covered in cobwebs. The bindings look ornate, but old. How long have they been here? Some of the windows are broken, some just cracked. A gentle wind blows the white curtains forward and backward.

Tumbleweeds of dust travel across the floors, in the center of the room - a giant astrolabe built in. How expensive must that have been in it’s time? When was it from? What was it for? Two rounded staircases lead the balcony where more books await. But the chilling thing? The footsteps in the dust that seemingly come from nowhere and lead nowhere.

The temperature continues to drop, you’re growing colder, shivering. But then you hear a voice.

“Who are you to disturb my slumber, mmm?” The voice is melodic, almost sweet, but somehow threatening. A spectral figure makes herself known coming rest atop the astrolabe in a more comfortable seated position.

The ghost of a woman in an elegant dress and Venetian mask, as though she had been going to a party.

“You’ve found your way to my library. How quaint. The voice grows deeper, somewhat grim. There’s the flash of what would be a smile. The woman shakes her head and raises a hand, her fingers then wagging whilst making a faint ‘tut tut’ sound.

“The very place where my life met it’s dramatic and glittering end. A fate that we shall have in common unless you can assist me. You see, I’ve grown bored, after so many years, I’ve read all the books here. If you wish to find a way to the next room with your life… you’ll need to appease me.”

The haunting specter floats upward, and then draws closer to you, circling you like a predator would it’s prey.

“You owe me a story - tell me a dark tale about the night the lights went out.”

Cackling, cackling and howling laughter. “And if you tell me a story so good… those doors will unlock” The specter points to a grand set of double doors, heavy, and unlikely to have been opened in ages. “And you’ll progress to the next room, where the next ghost will make a request. There are four of us in total, succeed four times and you’ll be returned from whence you came."

You feel a hand come to rest on your shoulder and feel a strange presence from behind. "As for me, you may call me Madame H. Your time starts now. Tick tock little one."


1 entry per member, per prompt

Entries must be at minimum 2 paragraphs and a maximum of 6

All RPA Rules apply, if your response is Mature for example, please contain within a spoiler tag.

These entries will be judged by RPA Staff, the winner will be posted when the next prompt is released.

Prompts will be released once per week throughout the month of October


Prompt 1: Tell me a dark tale, what happened when the lights went out?

Prompt 2: You're seated at the dining room table, before you is a silver cloche. You hesitate to place your hand upon it, and after a moment you remove the dome - what is on the plate beneath? It could be a food item, an object, a means of escape, or retaliation. What is it that you see, and what do you do?

Prompt 3: Who was this woman? What happened to her in life? What happened to her portrait in death?

Prompt 4 (Final Prompt): You have felt the hatred of the house, but now - tell us what lies beyond that final set of doors? What awaits you on the other side? Freedom or something else? Write in the guest book.

[ArtisticVicu]

Instinct stopped her feet but there was no fear in the action. She dragged Apollo’s leash through her hand, directing the dog back to a tight heel position. He willingly complied and she only half noticed as her graze drifted across what had once been her brightly lit street. Voices of those who had been outside enjoying the warmer evening drifted on the faint breeze. Candles and flashlights started brightening windows and porches but due to the street being tucked away from any major thoroughfare, those would be the only bits of light the street would see for a while. She wasn’t surprised when a house a street over was suddenly illuminated; the owner’s vehicle had been decked out with a whole array of lights in addition to the standard pair of headlights. Her hand covered the glowing home easily as she tipped her head back, seeking out the night sky above.

The moon was barely a sliver in the eastern horizon allowing the stars to shine bright and the sky was filled with them. The Milky Way was a massive streak of color across the sky far clearer than she had ever seen it in person, let alone in the heart of civilization. It was absolutely breathtaking and she stood there staring at it until her neck couldn’t handle the position anymore.

Apollo - eternally patient and the bestest of boys - had laid down on her feet content with her not moving as he had been with their walk not a moment ago. A smile spread across her face as she tugged a foot out from under him and rubbed his fluffy head when it came up at her movement. He got up without a command on her part and she started them back on the path home.

The lights being out certainly made things challenging when there was no moon to offer more substantial light than the stars alone. She would have missed her home completely had her neighbors not already been on their porch with their candles still lit. Quite a few more had been added to the railings in the time she had been star gazing and quite a few other bodies had joined the few that had already been there. The larger cluster called after her to check on her and she assured them that she would be fine and had quite enough light sources to navigate the darkness long enough to get to bed.

A seemingly absolute darkness closed in around her as the front door closed behind her yet years of repetition made it easy for her fingers to find the deadbolt and lock the door in a single motion. Apollo shook himself out when she freed him from his harness and the metal rings of his collar softly clinked together as he padded towards the kitchen for some water. Hanging up the harness was a bit harder but she did manage to at least find the hook without too much struggle and her shoes were kicked off haphazardly next to the door before she followed after Apollo, her right hand absentmindedly following the wall. In theory the flashlight on top of the fridge should still have some battery life left.

Adrenaline pinpricked its way down her spine as the wall ended at the kitchen. Her finger tips landed on a cool stone counter as she stilled, straining to hear or see whatever had sent goosebumps up her arms. There had been something there, something had caught her attention and not in the good way. At least, she thought there had been. Maybe she had been mistaken? But, then, why couldn’t she hear Apollo drinking or moving about on the hardwood and linoleum? Whatever it was moved faster than she could because she got the glimpse of a shape out of the corner of her eye before she knew no more, one of many victims to fall before the lights came back on.

[Hannelorian]

Basking in the moonlight of the library, the sound of applause rings out. At first Madame H is clapping slowly, and then faster, and ever faster until her hands drop and silence falls over the room. The masked figure approaches with a contented look upon her ghostly face. There was once a great charm there that lingers no longer. Only a tired figure who appears ready to allow you to move on.

"Well done my lovelies. Well done." The voice of the figure is soft, almost resigned to her fate you as the budding story teller have bested her and completed the assignment with a grace and ease.

"For those who have passed our first challenge the path is clear to the next room. Go forth and see my face more." Madame H relents and with a snap of her fingers you hear a distant door unlock.

As you approach the heavy door covered in cob webs, you reach out for the handle but before you can touch it, the doors open before you allowing you free passage into the next room. Stepping forward your adjust to the darkness before catching sight of three massive silver candelabras atop a massive dinning room table set for at least 20. The candles are all aglow and beckon you to come in further.

Along one side of the room you notice large windows though you cannot see far out of them, nothing past the trees whose branches occasionally brush against the glass. If you had to guess, you would assume there was a storm outside, the wind whips and howls just beyond your grasp.

"Welcome! Welcome!" Another voice calls from behind, but when you turn back there is nothing, and the doors you have come through are sealed once more.

A dapper dressed man, clad in a black tuxedo bids you welcome from the head of the table. He rises in his seat, just as ghostly as the figure before. A golden venetian mask this time spread across his face shield many of his features from you as the viewer. "You have kept me waiting for too long. Sit."

The figure outstretches a hand and one seat draws back from the table long enough for you to sit before being tucked in. "Your fate is in your hands. Tell me a dark tale, and you shall be well fed. Fail to impress and you shall starve, joining us here in purgatory."

You're seated at the dining room table, before you is a silver cloche. You hesitate to place your hand upon it, and after a moment you remove the dome - what is on the plate beneath? It could be a food item, an object, a means of escape, or retaliation. What is it that you see, and what do you do?

[ArtisticVicu]

Despite the obvious attempts to free the silver from the tarnish, it clung to the crevices of the ornate handle and along the edges of the embossed design that covered the dome. The design on both dome and handle was flora in nature but the true intent of the design was hard to discern. The tarnished silver was cold to the touch, as if the winter chill had slipped through the walls and had ingrained itself into the silver, but it did not sink its icy teeth in as snow or biting wind would. The cloche came off the covered dish without a sound in part due to the care to make sure it didn’t connect with whatever lay beneath.

A porcelain plate lay beneath, meticulously placed so that the design along the wide rim was straight compared to the table setting. Painted intricate ivy created a makeshift border, isolating the painting of a fox chasing a rabbit all around the dish into four distinct little scenes. Not a single one showed the rabbit caught so there had to be some sort of good omen there. Much like the cloche, time was evident in the plate as well. Despite how vibrant the paint still was and how well tended the porcelain appeared, crackling was evident all along the rim and into the body of the plate itself. At first it came off as an aesthetic choice as parts of it looked reglazed but the far edge of the plate had a few small places where it was clear it was not.

The items on the plate were peculiar. None of it was food, which was both relieving and disheartening. It was a relief to not be tempted by the food of fae or other planer beings where hidden rules lay but the lack of food and the unknown length until one’s next meal certainly made it a bittersweet relief. Still, the plate held items and it was hard to tell if they were brought by desire or placed there as a test. The largest of the items was a book, though the book itself wasn’t overly big; it counted more as a pocket journal than an actual book in size, at least. Additionally there was an old tarnished gold key, a fountain pen that looked to be made out of a dark green gem and real gold that seemed to be the most well kept item on the plate, and a simple compass on a broken chain.

A thick desire to touch all of the items, to take and to keep, invades the brain and trickles down the spine, making fingers tingle with the desire to move. It takes a moment but not a long one to shove the sensation away. The items belonged to someone else and to take them would be wrong. They had been offered which meant touching to inspect and be curious about was permitted but taking was off the table unless explicitly stated.

Still, it didn’t stop the heart from clenching in anticipation as the compass was picked up first.

When nothing happens, the compass is closely examined and rotated about in careful fingers. The needle is steady as the compass is rotated clockwise but there is no telling if its truly pointing north. The pen is heavier than expected when picked up and the stone the pen is made out of truly looks like a dark green gemstone like emerald or equivalent. Something precious and rich in color, at the bare minimum. The gold made up the pen clip, nib holder, and nib and looked well tended to. It was strange it hadn’t been presented in its box. The key was heavy but beyond the intricate weave of the bow into the shank, it was just another key to a door somewhere. The book held the most interest for there was no telling what was hidden beneath the cover. The leather was old and worn far more than at first glance and the design on the front was faded from either wear or weight. Inside the pages were thick and heavy as if made by hand and each one was heavily covered with handwriting. Diagrams and illustrations accompanied a lot of the writings and there were even tufts of fur, pressed flora, and additional pieces of paper attached to or tucked between pages. This surely would be the greatest boon in telling any tale; it would certainly be a treat to glimpse even a few of its pages before it would be returned to the plate undamaged with the rest of the items.

[Azazeal849]

(Prompt the Third: a Hanne and Az collaboration!)

With your new writing implements in hand, you enter what can only be described as a drawing room, the kind that existed in the bygone era of stately homes. or remain in the grand palaces of the world today. The walls are papered in a deep red with a striking black floral pattern. The floors are oddly free of dust, a dark red wood. The furniture equally appealing is upholstered in a crimson fabric almost velvety.

But before you can even take the opportunity to sit, catch your breath, relieved you have made it this far do your eyes catch a fantastic sight at the far end of the room. A blazing hearth, such light and warmth emanate from it, the chills you had felt earlier have finally subsided and for a moment in time you feel safe. Until you notice a massive frame hanging above the mantle. Within is the portrait of a lady, you find her familiar, but you can't quite place her. Her face has been slashed, the fabric of the canvas torn in what seems like a wild rage.

"Do you like what I've done with the place?"

You turn to see a gaunt man standing in the middle of the room; dark haired, dark eyed, wearing a faded double-breasted suit, and smiling icily. You didn't hear him enter, and he certainly wasn't standing there when you walked in. As you watch, green light fulgurates across his spare frame and his form appears to flicker from side to side, like a badly-tuned TV image. He grimaces, before turning to an ashtray lying broken in the middle of the floor - he extends a bony hand and another flicker of sickly green light jolts from his hand to the ashtray. It lifts itself up off the ground, welds together at the crack that had split it down the centre, and comes to rest on the coffee table.

"I've been cleaning up a bit," the man explains, "But I'm trying to decide if this one deserves it."

He nods towards the portrait. You see flickers of emerald lightning dancing in his eyes as they fix on you.

"What do you think? What's her story?"

Who was this woman? What happened to her in life? What happened to her portrait in death?

[ArtisticVicu]

If ever given the moment to be truly honest, she would have admitted that everything was a twisted sort of luck. From an uneventful childhood to marrying into money - to a husband that wasn’t abusive in any way, no less - life had been generous in its good fortune, but there were caveats. For an uneventful childhood, her parents hadn’t been able to truly love her and nurture her as she had needed. For picking a man for his money alone, she lucked out that he wasn’t abusive but he didn’t love her like she had wanted. For years she played the part of highborn and well educated, purveyor of the finer things in life with a good head about money and goods alike. For years she did as was expected of a lady of her status and found life to be hollow because of it.

For a loveless marriage, she bore no children. He never pushed the matter, already having a sibling’s kid written in as his ‘heir’, but it made the house seem even emptier. Oftentimes the only companionship she found was in the hired staff. They were always pleasant and kind to her, though she suspected a lot of that had to do with them being employed, but she drank up the pseudo-compassion and reveled in it. That is until she met her; one Vanessa Farris.

Vanessa Farris had been hired to work with the horses - the one hobby she actually enjoyed anymore - and they had met on Vanessa’s first day. To her, Vanessa was like any other staff, except Vanessa reminded her of the horses she loved so much. Wild looking yet every move a show of strength and elegance, Vanessa quickly became her fascination. And her husband’s, though she had been too blinded by her own bewitchment to even notice.

Vanessa seemed to genuinely reciprocate her curiosity and infatuation, gladly joining her on rides and luncheons, that she had thought Vanessa loved her back. That had been why she had confessed to Vanessa, laying her heart bare on one such ride after months of sorting out her feelings. Vanessa had reacted with tears of joy and happily kissed her back but after everything that had happened, she couldn’t remember it well enough to pick it apart in search of the lie. She found her husband and Vanessa in the barn talking of marriage and children, of eloping much as she had wanted to suggest to Vanessa as their relationship went on. She found them enjoying each other’s company, passionate in a way he had never been with her, touching in a way Vanessa had never touched her. It destroyed what little had been left of her humanity.

Or maybe that was just an excuse to try and sooth the guilt. Not that she was certain there was any guilt left. She had maintained enough sanity to plot and plan and patiently wait until she was able to make sure the only things that burned were those two and the barn itself. Her horses were safe, sent off to new homes, and it wouldn’t be long until the fire was put out and two bodies were found among the rubble. What she couldn’t seem to understand, though, was why she had a knife in hand. She had obviously shredded her own portrait but she couldn’t quite figure out why or where she had even gotten the knife from or when she had grabbed it. Maybe she should burn the whole place down.

No, that would be a waste. Besides, she was too tired to try and plan that out. Maybe she should go sleep. Would eternal sleep finally bring her what she wanted? Would anyone be waiting for her if she did join them? Did it matter? Life certainly didn’t care about her enough to give her more than the bare minimum.

[Hannelorian]

Having completed your task, the doors to the drawing room fly open and allow you safe passage to one last room beyond. Staring at the doorway you cannot see through, it appears as nothing but a void just waiting for you. Will to allow you through? Or will the darkness consume you? There is only way to find out my dear intrepid explorer. You are called to enter it, you can feel in your very bones the chill of the wintry air, you are almost free...

Stepping through you alarmed by the fact that nothing seems to have happened. You turn your head back to peer through the door from whence you came and clearly see the drawing room behind. Facing forward you are in a grand entrance hall. The floors are of crisp white marble with grey veining. You can see the entrance just ahead of you. Doors of brilliant white oak that have faded over time until a dull grey, layers of pain slowly but surely chipping away.

The great chandelier to hangs high above your head in the center of the room has not been illuminated in many years and instead collects dust upon the ironwork and candles whose wax trails remind you of a time when this place would have been full of life. The carpet that leads from the entrance doors and up the tremendous staircase was once red, but is now also dull and threadbare. Small clouds of dust emerging as you step on it.

There is a small circular table in the center, between the doors and the stairs. A crack vase sits upon it with the remains of a lush bouquet, now all dried and crisp. But getting closer you see a dusty book and a pen. The cover is of red leather with gold lettering that simply reads "Guest Book."

Opening it you can hear the creak of the spine, you thumb through the dusty pages to read the stories of those who came before you. On the last page, one final challenge is written.

"Houses... are alive. This is something we know. News from our nerve endings. If we're quiet, if we listen, we can hear houses breath. Sometimes, in the depth of the night, you can even hear them groan. It's as if they were having bad dreams. A good house cradles and comforts, a bad one fills us with instinctive unease. Bad houses hate our warmth and our human-ness. That blind hate of our humanity is what we mean when we use the word 'haunted'."

You have felt the hatred of the house, but now - tell us what lies beyond that final set of doors? What awaits you on the other side? Freedom or something else?

[ArtisticVicu]

To what extent can an inanimate object truly feel emotions? Does it gain some form of sentience as it is fed the emotions of those closest to it or does it simply reflect what it was exposed to over however long it takes for such incorporeal things to take root? Wandering through this home has certainly not answered my questions, though the emotions that have lingered are no less potent than when they first manifested, I would think. Be them remnants of souls, the house’s own doing, or something more that we have yet to understand, the rooms and halls I have passed through have certainly not been happy ones.

Yet, even without knowing if the house has sentience or not, if it is souls or echoes that remain here, my heart breaks for the suffering that I have seen despite the fear I have felt. To know such pain has been felt so potently to leave a mark, to know that so many souls have passed through here and have suffered such, I wish it was able to fill the home with love and understanding, to help soothe the pain and hurt so that unseen wounds can begin to heal.

But, then again, that may only my bleeding heart seeking to help others in the hopes of healing itself.

I will not lie and say I know what lies beyond those oak doors. It can be the freedom I hope it is as easily as something even worse than my travels through this wounded home I fear it might be as easily as being the same, heavy hearted mundane I’m expecting it to be. Regardless, I will handle what may come in the same manner I have with this very home: with caution, curiosity, and compassion.

For any who may follow in my stead: do not lose heart. Should what lay beyond the doors be only more of the same, know that you have made it this far - be it on your own or with others - and you will be able to take on what comes next. It might be difficult and trying but I have every faith in your capacity to handle it well.

Still, though. Please don’t forget to take a break when safety is afforded you. It is certainly not easy to take care of one’s well-being here and very little should stop you from taking care of yourself. Especially in such situations. Whatever lays beyond those doors will still be there when you are ready and able to face it head on.